


In Dreams Sweet

by tirsynni



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 19:49:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirsynni/pseuds/tirsynni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo was his. Everything he had done was for him. If Thorin waited, Bilbo would return.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Dreams Sweet

Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain, knew little of the ending to the Battle of the Five Armies. He knew his kin, while battered and worn, were alive. All twelve dwarves whom accompanied him on his journey still breathed. He knew the Eagles had come and their host from before had entered the fray.

He also knew the only reason Bilbo Baggins still breathed was Thorin’s gift of mithril armor, but that was no reason to believe he would keep breathing.

Bandages wrapped around his head, hiding his curls. His helm protected him from the worst of it, but not all. Gauze covered in ointment covered his bruised torso, as not even mithril could prevent the pain of impact. His tough hobbit feet had bled before they were wrapped, too.

“Hobbits are strong,” Gandalf said, voice quiet but strong behind him, as if imparting a lesson or warning rather than comfort. “There is a strength in them nigh unmatched by most creatures on this earth.” _Including dwarves,_ remained silent but always there, mocking words which had grown in strength as their quest had progressed.

Thorin clasped Bilbo’s small hand in his own. Previously unknown calluses and smooth streaks of scar tissue rubbed his fingers. Thorin tightened his grip.

Each mark was gained for his sake. Each mark was as much his as Bilbo’s. In the end… 

“He would not be here but for my sake,” Thorin growled. The rosy glow on Bilbo’s face had long fled, leaving his pale and cold. He looked closer to Thrandruil’s accursed woods than his own flourishing homeland. “Foolish hobbit.”

His foolish hobbit, now beyond his strength and protection.

“A hobbit whom knows his own mind and will make his own decisions,” Gandalf said lightly. “As I am sure you have learned by now.”

Thorin simply shook his head. The memory of the spears striking the small body would haunt him until the end of his days, he knew. His last words to the hobbit had been ruthless and cruel, and yet again the hobbit had flung himself into the path of danger to save his life. Both times, he had been unworthy of that loyalty.

Decisions made for Thorin’s sake, wounds gained in Thorin’s name.

Thorin’s.

Gandalf clasped his shoulder, and Thorin tensed. Never before had the wizard’s touch been so foreign and unwanted. “Your people need you now. They need their king. I will inform you if there are any changes –”

Thorin jerked away from Gandalf’s hand. “Kili and Fili are the heirs to the throne, and Balin is greatly experienced. My people are in good hands.”

“Thorin,” Gandalf tried, but Thorin glared at him. What could a wizard, one without a home or kingdom, know of protection? Responsibility? Possession?

“If you cannot be of help,” he hissed, “then leave.” He looked back to Bilbo’s pale face and held Bilbo’s limp hand to his cheek. He did not turn back to watch Gandalf leave.

_” I know you doubt me, I know you always have, and you're right. I often think of Bag End. I miss my books, and my arm chair, and my garden. See, that's where I belong; that's home, and that's why I came cause you don't have one... a home. It was taken from you, but I will help you take it back if I can."_

xoxoxox

The other dwarves visited, their presence barely affecting the tent’s mournful gloom. Dori and Bombur brought food. Bofur played music. Kili and Fili told stories, and Thorin did not stop them when they told embarrassing stories about him. Bifur spoke to Bilbo in Khazdul, so quietly Thorin could not make out the words. Ori sat in the corner, writing and drawing things he refused to show anyone else. Balin and Dwalin spoke to Thorin about the happenings in the camp and spoke words of encouragement regarding Bilbo’s dwarf-like stubbornness. Nori brought both Thorin and Bilbo treats, and Thorin never asked from whence they came. Gloin told Bilbo stories about his magnificent son, Gimli, and Oin sat beside him for each tale, loudly agreeing with Gloin even when it was obvious that he had no idea what Gloin was saying.

Through it all, Bilbo never awoke. Thorin feared that, the longer he slept, the lesser chance there was of him awakening. He clutched Bilbo’s hand to him and the darkness seemed to grow and wrap around them, as soothing as Erebor’s hallowed halls.

Bilbo was his. Everything he had done was for him. If Thorin waited, Bilbo would return.

Healers came and went, preferring to focus their attention on the more grievously wounded warriors. They told Thorin that Bilbo would wake in his own time, but the doubt was clear in their eyes and voices. Thorin ignored them. Unconscious, Bilbo looked small and frail, but Thorin knew better. He had seen the strength of his Halfling in action.

Balin should have known better, too, but it did not stop him from delicately approaching Thorin about making a monument to Bilbo in Erebor. He also mentioned again and again about the dwarves’ need for their king.

“Tell them,” Thorin snarled, “that if it was not for the Halfling, there would be no reclaimed Erebor, or a king, or his heirs. Tell them that!”

When Balin left then, Kili and Fili left with him, unusually grim. That conversation did not arise again. The darkness shrouded Thorin and Bilbo, cool and comforting. Thorin and his Halfling.

During the times they were alone, Thorin ordered Bilbo to cease this nonsense and awaken. He sang to him, quietly, and whispered in Khazdul in his ear. Each time he waited for Bilbo to blink at him and ask for a translation. Bilbo stayed still and silent but Thorin could swear, in his most private thoughts, that he heard Bilbo whisper to just wait, wait, and was Bilbo not his?

Gandalf visited, face shadowed and grim. He touched Bilbo’s head and neck and ran his hand over Bilbo’s face. He touched his wrists and chest, his countenance growing darker each time. Thorin would have questioned him but for the flicker of Bilbo’s eyelids and lips. Instead of cheering Gandalf, the wizard only scowled harder.

That evening, Bilbo’s hand twitched in Thorin’s, Kili and Fili cheered but Gandalf only frowned and murmured about seeking counsel from the elves. Thorin’s own joy kept him from snarling at Gandalf. Why have the elves interfere now when they did not help when Bilbo lay deathly still? The elves had returned to their wooded homes, and Thorin felt they should all rot there.

In the morning, Bilbo awoke with a gasp. Only Gandalf did not cheer. The howls of the dwarves echoed through the plains, and even the traitorous Men joined in, forgetting how they had abandoned Bilbo to his injuries. Thorin ignored them for now, focused on hugging his hobbit close.

“A great eye,” Bilbo whispered over and over, and Thorin could almost see it, a glowing jewel in his mind. “A great eye…”

His words were muffled in Thorin’s shoulder, Thorin’s grip tight and sure. The others could not hear his words over their own cheers. “Just a bad dream, halfling,” he murmured. “You are safe now.”

Safe from treacherous Elves and Men. Safe from even Bilbo’s own soft heart.

“It’s searching,” Bilbo breathed, voice so rough it made Thorin’s own throat ache. Thorin shushed him and called for someone to bring Bilbo water.

This would not happen again. His burglar would not be endangered again. As King Under the Mountain, Thorin would destroy all who dared.

“The eye,” Bilbo repeated, low and frightened, and Thorin smiled at him, confident in his own power.

“Rest, my precious. This battle is done.”


End file.
